SINCE Gaston kissed and rode away, Babette sits weeping all the day, And goes no more to fete or fair, Who one time was the gayest there. The cure says, and so say I, "Love is a sorry thing to try. "My niece," says he, "hath too much wit Ever to give a thought to it." "O Uncle, yea!" I cry. Wherefore I treat the lads with scorn -- I toss my curls at maids forlorn; Still, one May night, I chanced to see Where Jean went walking with Marie, And suddenly he bent -- and O! My cheek was red as hers I know. It did not seem so @3wrong,@1 and yet How sad she is, that poor Babette! And Uncle says and so say I, "Love is a sorry thing to try." But Easter, when I went to mass, The miller's Raoul watched me pass With such black eyes -- I laughed and then, I know not why -- I looked again; And when Marie and Jean came by I felt so @3sad@1 -- I wonder why. And last night in the garden he -- (Saints! had the cure chanced to see!) "My niece," says he, "hath too much wit Ever to give a thought to it." "O Uncle, yea!" I cry. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY?' by FRANCIS BRET HARTE ASTROPHEL AND STELLA: 68 by PHILIP SIDNEY SILEX SCINTIALLANS: THEY ARE ALL GONE by HENRY VAUGHAN THE COWARD by LAWRENCE ALMA-TADEMA AFFINITES: 1 by MATHILDE BLIND SHEEPBELLS by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN PARAPHRASE OF PSALM 46. HEXAMETERS by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE |